


can you hear the bumblebees swarm?

by lobotomycastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anniversaries, Child Jack Kline, Domesticity, Fluff, Implied Mechanic Dean, M/M, Old Married Couple, beekeeper cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29852931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobotomycastiel/pseuds/lobotomycastiel
Summary: It starts with one box, on their five-year anniversary.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, background Saileen - Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 110





	can you hear the bumblebees swarm?

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOOOOO DESTIEL COMMUNITY!!!! It's been too long! This fic is for my beloved mutual Sarah cactuscas on Tumblr, happy birthday Sarah! It features everything you like - plant dad Cas, married DeanCas, Jack being their kid, Cas being desired carnally by everyone at the farmers' market, etc.!

It starts with one box, on their five-year anniversary. Take _that_ , Nick Dunne, there are plenty of good gifts for wood if you actually care about your wife. Husband. Angel. Whatever. The point is, Dean Winchester is not getting his ass Gone Girl-ed any time soon, and Castiel Winchester is ecstatic about his new bees. 

“We can get more, obviously, but you’re so busy with your garden and the PTA and Jack all day, I didn’t know if you’d even want a new hobby--” He feels a little ridiculous, surrounded by Cas’ wildflower garden, carefully cultivated to be vibrant with color despite the lingering winter chill in the middle of February, with a plain wooden box. Maybe he should’ve thrown a coat of paint on it or something. Made it special. 

Like he can read his mind, Cas soothes his worries immediately. “Dean. It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” he tells him, sincere, as he inspects one of the honeycomb rows, letting a few of the bees land on his hand and crawl on him. When Cas finally tears his eyes away from his gift, he gives Dean the _look_ that says he’s getting a blowjob tonight. Marriage is fucking awesome. 

“Hey, we don’t need to pick Jack up from his friends’ place until like, 3. You wanna head inside?” 

Cas grabs his wrist, all but dragging him back into their home. The blowjob comes earlier than expected (and so does he). 

* * *

After the first one, they multiply. One becomes two becomes four becomes eight entire bee boxes in their backyard in the span of a few months, buzzing away and making more honey than they know what to do with. They make a horribly mismatched set; the one Dean got him is made of a light pine wood, and the rest of them, salvaged from retiring beekeepers across the Midwest, are either a darker cedar or fir, or a muted pastel from a faded paint job. 

Honestly, it’s kind of a kitschy eyesore. Then again, their whole house is a kitschy eyesore. He’s staring at the bee boxes from the inside of a pastel yellow kitchen with a goddamn herb garden in the windowsill and pothos vines hanging down from the ceiling. Their living room has one of those stupid “Live Laugh Love” wooden signs in it. 

Well, it says “Live Laugh Lore” now, thanks Sammy, but the point still stands. He’s got no ground to stand on, but he wants to do something about the aesthetic catastrophe sitting in Cas’ garden. So he does the mature husband thing and brings it up at the dinner table. 

“Scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if Jack and I gave your bee boxes a paint job?” 

Jack, who like any good third grader, is excited about the prospect of potentially getting to make a mess. “Can we, Dad? Please?” he asks, turning the manipulation level up to 100. Dean couldn’t be more proud. 

Cas looks more surprised than anything. “Of course you can, honey, but… Dean, _you_ want to paint? When you have a conniption fit every time you see crumbs on the floor?”

“This is different! I just don’t like it when the house is messy--”

“You spend an hour vacuuming after every movie night--”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! Jack, back me up on this.” A small part of him has the decency to go “eugh, fun weekend projects with the kid and husband.” He’s a friggin’ soccer mom. All he needs is the 4pm glass of wine and the bad haircut. He even caved and got a minivan two years ago when Jack started ballet lessons. 

Speaking of, the kid nods his little head so fast, Dean gets whiplash looking at him. “It’ll be fun!” 

Cas relents, but only with the promise that he can heckle them from the sidelines when it inevitably goes tits-up (not the _exact_ phrasing he used, but he might as well have). So Dean picks a weekend to go pick out paint colors. 

* * *

Going to Home Depot to look at paint swatches with an eight year old who thinks rainbows are the best thing since Baby Shark was… maybe not his best idea. And it definitely wasn’t a good idea to bring Cas with him, because Cas doesn’t know what the word “no” is when it comes to Jack. So for their eight bee boxes, they bring home eight little cans of paint in different pastels. 

Sitting out in the backyard, tarp on the ground and bees surrounding them, Jack dips his hand into the paint and gives their mint-green box a few more pink handprints before doing his best Jackson Pollock impersonation with the purple and blue. Dean’s been working on his magnum opus - the yellow box - all afternoon, and it’s almost done: he’s covered the whole thing in hexagons to look like honeycomb. Cas is gonna _love_ it. 

Cas walks outside to join them, holding two glasses of lemonade, and Dean accepts, taking a gulp before gagging and coughing it up. “Did you finally decide to poison me or somethin’? What the hell is this?” 

“It’s lemonade!”

It’s times like this when Dean is reminded of why he’s the one that does all the cooking around here. “Did you use the-” 

“No, I didn’t use salt this time, I used what was in the sugar jar,” Cas says, and it's then he remembers that because his baby brother is both five years old and in his forties at the same time, he’s currently in a prank war. And it was his turn to get pranked. 

“I’m gonna kill Sam,” he decides, right then and there. 

“Don’t kill uncle Sam, he makes banana bread,” Jack says, still concentrating on whatever he’s painting. “Can I use the orange paint, please?” 

Cas passes Jack the can of orange paint as he sits down with them. “Don’t kill my brother-in-law, Eileen and I have girls’ night next week.” 

“I still wanna know what you two get up to on girls’ night.” He pulls Cas closer to him so he can give him a kiss, and Jack, who apparently learned at school that grown-ups kissing his gross, makes a face at them. Dean, being the adult of the house, makes a face right back. 

His husband gives him another kiss before he drags the last plain box towards him, the pink one. “Jack, honeybee, you wanna help me paint this one?” Cas asks their son.

Jack, without looking up, says “nope!” and keeps working on his own project. Dean can’t help but laugh at that; he’s so damn proud of that kid. Cas gets his revenge, though, when he gives Dean a shove and leaves a bright pink paint handprint on his shoulder. Asshole. 

“Good luck getting that out in the wash,” he says, because Dean does all the laundry too. And just like that, he takes their mostly-full lemonade glasses and heads back inside. _Asshole_. 

It’s fine. He’ll get Cas back later tonight when they do the dishes.

* * *

Dean’s been to Hell. It was the worst forty years of his life. Endless torture, the screams of other damned souls echoing around him, Alastair… all things that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Certainly not things he’s gonna bring up with his therapist, at least not unless Dr. Nguyen gets really chill about a bunch of stuff really quickly. 

A close second to Hell, and something he _can_ bring up with his therapist, is watching his husband get eye-fucked by every damn vendor at this stupid farmers’ market. 

“Would you like a sample of our bread? On the house for you, of course, Mr…?” trails off this 6-ft-6 corn-fed jackass with some Bible name who absolutely does not make Dean feel insecure. He can cope with people who his husband might find attractive being taller than him. It’s why he doesn’t shut off the TV every time he sees Cas watching Property Brothers anymore. Jonathan Scott doesn’t scare him, the guy’s _Canadian_ , for fuck’s sake. 

“Winchester, Castiel Winchester,” Cas says, shaking the fucker’s hand like this guy isn’t trying to destroy their marriage. The guy’s wearing overalls, what kind of douchebag wears overalls?

“Isaiah Thompson,” says Mr. Tall Blond and Stupid, which is perfect, because now Dean has a name for the guy whose arm he’s gonna cut off. He’s not even supposed to _be here_ , the farmers’ market is Sam and Cas’ thing. But his horrible traitor of a brother decided that he and Eileen just needed to go to the Topeka Renaissance Faire with Charlie, and then Jack had wanted to tag along, and Dean couldn’t say no to the kid, and there’s no way that he was gonna stay in the house alone, so… here he is. Plotting the murder of a midwestern floozy. 

He’s pulled out of his fantasy where he’s stabbing Isaiah with his own serrated bread knife (that isn’t even a Wüsthof, it’s fucking amateur hour here at the Lebanon farmers’ market, it’s a Victorinox, they’re not even in the top ten knife brands according to every housekeeping magazine he’s read, take _that_ Isaiah) when Cas starts talking again. 

“You know, my husband and I make our own honey, I could grab a jar from our car if you’d like to try some? In exchange for the bread.” And with that, Cas is off, leaving Dean and Isaiah to stare at each other. He takes it back, this day has topped all forty years of Hell torture. 

Isaiah doesn’t seem fazed at all, though that might just be an intimidation tactic. “Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” he says, and Dean’s never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“Yeah, yeah. Great weather. It’s been so rainy lately, I was worried our tomatoes would rot on the vine. Heirlooms, y’know? Super fragile.”

The idiot takes the bait, hook line and sinker. “You grow heirlooms? Geez, I wish I had the time for those!” And if that isn’t proof that he’s the superior husband, he doesn’t know what is. 

“Mmhmm. _I_ have time for Cas. So don’t get any ideas.” 

“...What?”

“You heard me.” He restrains himself from pulling out his bigass knife for emphasis, but just barely. 

Cas comes back right before Dean starts a physical fight over tomato varieties, holding one of their little mason jars full of honey to give to Isaiah. “We’ll see you next week, Isaiah, save us a rye loaf!” he says as he hands it over. Before he can commit a homicide, Cas tugs them over to another vendor, who is thankfully _not_ a beefcake and is a 70-something old lady who is trying to sell them herbs. 

At least he would be thankful if the sweet old lady didn’t grope his husband’s ass right in front of him when she pulls Cas in for a hug. He hates the farmers’ market so much. 

“Deborah! Stop it, we’re both married! What would your husband think?” Cas laughs, and Deborah, the bitch, winks at him and asks if he wants ‘the usual,’ which turns out to be mint, sage, basil, tarragon, and a little weed. Of course. 

Once they’re back in the car, Dean waits approximately two seconds before kissing Cas breathless. 

“What was that for?” Cas is giving him his ‘you’re being ridiculous but lucky for you I’m into it’ smile that always makes him a little defensive. 

“What? I can’t kiss my husband now?” 

Because Cas has always, unnervingly, been able to see right through him, he responds with “I’m not going to leave you for Isaiah just because he makes decent bread. I love you, Dean, only you.”

It’s been over five years since they got married, and he’s still terrible with words. What Cas deserves to hear him say is something about how he loves him too, how Cas is _it_ for Dean, and how he’s sorry for being a dumbass today, all the times he’s been a dumbass before, and all the times he’ll be a dumbass in the future. As it stands, the best he can do is “Yeah. My sourdough is better than his, anyways,” pop in a cassette, and start the long drive back home.

And because Cas has always been way too good to him, that’s enough. 

* * *

Year six sneaks up on them quicker than it has any right to. Over half a decade. Jack is in 4th grade now, he’ll be headed to middle school sooner rather than later. Dean’s buddies at the garage have long since stopped making fun of him for how whipped he is (and so what if he’s whipped? Sue him, he’s married to a literal angel). Jesus Christ, six years. 

According to AudreysMomLife.wordpress.com, which he can thank for saving his marriage more than once, the gift for this year is iron. Nick Dunne remains wrong about everything, because _this_ is the year there aren’t any good gifts for. He used to hunt ghosts, he already has way too much iron laying around, and all of it’s in the form of crowbars and knives. Cas says he doesn’t need anything romantic, but… he deserves romantic. He already saw his own gift in the kitchen this morning, the deep blue Le Creuset that he’s been eyeing for months, and he wants to do something equally thoughtful for Cas. 

All that to say that he’s spent three weeks holed up in his shed-turned-workshop, melting down those crowbars and making Cas a bouquet of metal roses. They can’t have real roses because they’re ‘a drain on the soil, Dean, and they need so much fertilizer, especially if you want them to look showroom-quality,’ but the metal ones don’t need soil. 

Cas is out in the garden with Jack when he comes out of the shed with his present. Jack’s started to take an interest in their bees beyond the eight crochet bee plushies he has, and Cas has been using that to try and show him how to collect honey. He’s a little mini-Cas now, he has his own little beekeeper suit and everything, it’s adorable. 

“Hey angel, happy anniversary.” He’ll never get tired of Cas’ soft smile whenever Dean gets him something. He got the same smile from him last week when he got Jack a deck of old Pokemon cards from a yard sale. He hands him the bouquet, and even with the mesh veil in the way, he can see Cas’ eyes go misty. 

“Dean, you are… the most thoughtful, wonderful man I know,” Cas tells him, taking off the veil and leaning in to kiss him. “Happy six years, honeybee.”

Jack, who’s still stuck on the idea that grown-ups kissing is the most disgusting thing on the planet, takes off into the house, yelling about cooties. “Are we gonna have to talk to the PTA about that? What the hell’s he learning at that school?” he asks his husband, who shakes his head. 

“I think it’s fine. Jack, sweetheart, take off the beekeeper suit if you’re not outside!”

The faint “Okay, dad!” from inside the house is the only answer they get from their son. Kids, always quiet at the most ominous moments. “I’ll go check on him,” Cas says, carrying his anniversary gift inside. His _husband_ is gonna check on his _kid_ while he puts the flowers Dean got him in a vase… six years and it’s still unbelievable. It’s perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated, you can find me at [ @lobotomycastiel ](https://lobotomycastiel.tumblr.com)!


End file.
